


You Can Lead A Horse...

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: CEO Mycroft, Greg is in the Mounted Division, M/M, Mounted Police, Rupert_Graves_Birthday_2020, police horses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Another of my AUs. Greg is an Inspector in the London Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch, Mycroft is the CEO of a large scientific instrument company. They meet under rather unfortunate circumstances, but the upside is, there are horses involved.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 24
Kudos: 96
Collections: Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020





	1. Never Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Copgirl1964](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/gifts).



> This fic is the first of two I offered for the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2020, however I cannot write a 2k story to save my life it seems... So this is the first chapter, because this story ran away with me (again), although galloped might be more appropriate. More will follow, and well done for winning my entry, Copgirl, I hope you like this.

_Summer’s well and truly here,_ Greg thought as he parked his car in the yard and switched off the engine. The cooling metal ticked as he got out and grabbed his bag from the back seat, then he keyed the lock and made his way into the building. The sun was warm on his back as he crossed the yard, hailing Martin as the Leading Hand appeared in the doorway, manhandling a barrow laden with manure. Greg went into the building, already a cool refuge from the heat that was building outside. It wasn’t even 6am yet. He realised with pleasure that he wasn't on duty until seven. Plenty of time for coffee first. 

"Morning, Inspector." His sergeant, Sally Donovan, poked her head around his office door 20 minutes later. 

"Morning, Sal', how are you?" He looked up to see her cradling her own coffee mug, the contents steaming gently. 

"The usual," she answered him, grinning. 

“We’re scheduled for patrolling Hyde Park this morning?" Greg said.

"Yup, we pulled the PR shift again." So called because it would be mostly patrolling through summer visitors, giving directions, posing for photos. 

"Better pack some carrots, in case the kids ask to feed the horses. We've got the Arsenal Match this weekend, haven't we?" Greg added.

"As if you didn't know," Sally replied, grinning. Her boss' football loyalty was well known. 

Half an hour later, Greg was happily swooshing a brush through his equine partner’s dappled coat, something they both enjoyed. Greg loved the physical repetition of grooming, and the horse obviously loved the feel of the brush. It was nice, this quiet time together. It had the feel of a yoga workout, and it set the pace of the day. If Greg was bothered about anything, the process always reset his mind. Despite a natural charm, and boyish good looks which were maturing nicely, Greg was more comfortable around his four-legged friends. He might be approachable, friendly, unflappable, but Greg possessed a natural affinity for horses and had been around them most of his life. Hammy, or to give him his full name, Hamish McLeod of Lewis, was his third mount in thirty years as an officer in the Mounted Branch of the Metropolitan Police, and by far his favourite. As silver as his rider's hair, Hammy was a handsome dapple-grey Irish Draught, ironically born in Scotland. The breed lent itself well to the job, with a natural stoic calm about them. Hammy was also gentle, and thus usually a hit with kids. At twelve he was a veteran, steady and calm, sensible, gentle, and Greg loved him. He expected that, barring illness or injury to the horse, or to himself for that matter, he and Hammy would be paired until they both retired.

After grooming, the horses were left to chill out for a half hour while the humans attended a morning briefing, which Greg, as Inspector, usually conducted. He was part of a tight, close-knit team, and for Greg there was nowhere he would rather be. He emerged into the yard a little later, fully kitted for the day in his uniform; fitted black riding breeches, black boots, a short-sleeved white shirt which was a concession to the summer heat, a hi-vis kevlar vest, his utility belt, and riding helmet. 

For a short time the yard was full of horses and people, as six officers mounted up and got themselves organised. Greg and Sally then lead the way out of the yard, Sal on Vivian, her bay, and each pair split off into the traffic and noise and heat of inner city London in summer. Greg and Sally rode a circuitous route around the park, then into it, expecting to ride about ten miles in one patrol. There were tourists everywhere, but Viv and Hammy were old hands, posing quietly as cameras whirred and clicked, unmoved. 

0000000

Mycroft Holmes was having a bad day. He had been up at 5.30am for a Zoom meeting with a client in Sydney, Australia, and it had not gone well. As CEO of a rather large scientific instrument manufactory, Mycroft took it on himself to maintain client relationships with their larger and longer term customers. While he knew his very experienced sales team could handle most things, Mycroft had made it his priority to deal personally with one or two of their regular clients. Holmes Baskerville Baker counted the British Government among its clientele and it didn’t sit well with Mycroft that one of their regular clients was looking elsewhere. Mycroft couldn’t help but wonder why their loyalty had wavered. 

“Anthea,” he said as his capable PA drifted into the office with a breakfast tray and the morning’s post, “would you be a dear and look into Cooper & Co’s Australia HQ for me? They’ve tried looking for another source and it disturbs me as to why.”

“Certainly, sir. Don’t forget your meeting with Sir Anthony at ten, at the Diogenes, will you, sir?”

“Damn,” Mycroft sighed. “Thank you, my dear. Would you have a car ready at nine, and fetch me the relevant file?” She smiled and nodded and left him with his breakfast.

The heat hit him as he walked out the main door and across the forecourt to the waiting car. _Thank God for air conditioning,_ he thought, sliding into the back seat. “The Diogenes, Jeremy, please,” he said, unnecessarily, because the driver would know where he was going, but it always felt right to say anyway. As they drove into the city, it soon became apparent that traffic would be an issue, even leaving as much time as he had to get to his destination. Around Hyde Park, Mycroft tapped on the privacy screen.

“Jeremy, let me out here, I can walk across the park. Just meet me at the club when you can.”

“Certainly, sir. You’ll be alright?”

“I cannot imagine why not. I am capable of walking…”

 _The day is lovely,_ Mycroft considered, striding out down the path through the leafy shade of the trees. He was wearing his summer linen three piece, his computer bag over his shoulder, his watch chain winking in the sunlight. The path bordered the churned earth of Rotten Row, and Mycroft let his mind wander as he walked, thinking back to his youth. Two police horses walked past, their riders in easy conversation with each other. Mycroft watched them, wistfully. Both were easy in the saddle, an older man on a gorgeous dapple grey and a younger woman astride a glossy bay. There was something about the grey, though. Mycroft realised his rider was also grey, the back of his head just visible beneath his helmet. Pepper and salt peeked out. As Mycroft watched them, the man turned, laughing, and he was struck by the handsome profile. In his reverie, he did not notice the eyes tracking him from the concealment of the trees.

Greg and Sally trotted along Rotten Row for a while, letting the horses pick up the pace. They were eager to be out, enjoying the sunshine as much as anyone. There were a few other riders from the inner city stables, and everybody greeted each other pleasantly as they passed. 

“So, Old Man,” Sally said, using the nickname she had decided on almost as soon as they had met four years ago. “How was your weekend?”

“Not bad,” Greg admitted. “Bit quiet, truth be known.”

“You should have called me, I was at a loose end too. We could have had a pity party, consoled each other.” 

Greg turned to her and laughed. “No one new for you then?”

“Nope. No date for you either? How did it go with the last one? No spark?

“What, with Sam? Hell no,” Greg admitted. “He was okay, but wouldn’t stop talking about his dogs.”

“You like dogs.”

“Not six of them, and all little ones. Two Bichon Frise, a Chihuahua and three Dachshunds! He actually left early because he couldn’t bear to leave them for long.”

"His loss, he wasn't really your type anyway…"

"Excuse me, but how would you know what my type is?"

"Christ, Greg, I've known you long enough." 

"Go on then, know-all, what is it?" 

Sally glanced around and her eyes landed on a tall lean man, his auburn hair glinting copper in the sun. "Him, the guy with the pale linen suit and the grey shoulder bag."

"Okay, I admit it, you _do_ know my type, and if that suit is not Saville Row, I'm a horse's arse."

"Greg, you're a horse's arse anyway…"

"Thanks! You do remember I’m your senior officer?” 

She grinned at him and stuck her tongue out. “Come on, Greg, we all know you’re the old man of the outfit…”

“Oi! You puppy!”

“Grumpy git!”

They were rudely interrupted when a sudden cry of shock reached their ears and Greg drew Hammy up short.

“Where did that come from?”

“Christ, it’s the guy we were looking at…” Sal had already reined Vivian in and Hammy turned nimbly at Greg’s instruction. He spotted the tall man that Sally had pointed out now sprawled on the ground, and a youth in a hoodie running off, holding the grey shoulder bag. 

“I see him,” Greg confirmed. “Stay with the victim.” He keyed his radio and called it in as he urged Hammy into a canter and they were off, back down the Row, past the man on the ground. Greg had to be careful, there were far too many tourists about to make it safe to go too fast, but the man was running headlong, not looking where he was going beyond trying to get out of the Park. He was also dodging tourists who were slowing his headlong dash. 

One advantage Hammy gave Greg was height, the ability to see over everybody’s heads, which allowed him to make sure he didn’t lose his suspect. After a short pursuit, the man got desperate and ditched the bag in the nearby shrubbery, moments later running full tilt through the park gates to be faced with two police cars waiting for him, having been in the vicinity and responded to Greg’s call. The lad skittered to a halt, spun on his heels, and abruptly ran straight into Hammy coming up behind. Floored by a tonne of horseflesh, the man ended up on his backside, and was very quickly cuffed by one of the men from the police vehicles. Hammy stood still, unmoved. 

The horse was suddenly very interested in a particular bush, where Greg found the bag intact. He retrieved it, and grinned at their suspect. “Lose something, son?” he asked.

“That’s not mine,” the lad said, cocky and defiant.

“You’re not lying there,” Greg said. “Let’s go talk to the man you nicked it from.” He got back into the saddle and escorted the thief and his minder, one of the policemen from the vehicles, back to where he had left Sally with the victim of the crime.

“Right, sir, is this the man who assaulted you?” Mycroft looked up as he was approached by a policeman manhandling a young man toward him. Mycroft looked at the scruffy young man who avoided his eyes. 

“I am sorry, officer, but I can’t be sure,” Mycroft admitted. “I didn’t see him, he caught me from behind…”

“See, nuffin’ to do with me…”

“Button it, you,” Greg ordered, dismounting from Hammy and walking over with the bag. “We’ve all got eyes. Is this your bag…,” Greg was halted by a pair of blue-grey eyes that sparked with interest on seeing him. His voice died. He swallowed on a mouth gone dry. _Damn it all,_ he thought, resentfully, _why now? Why do I have to meet someone who ticks all my boxes when I'm on the job?_ His view from a distance had no way done justice to the man who stood in front of him now. Greg had a weakness for a well-cut suit on a lean body, _but blue eyes? Seriously?_ “...Sir?” he added hastily. It was suddenly a struggle to maintain his professional demeanour. 

“Yes, officer, it...um...it has a computer inside,” Mycroft said, eyes never leaving the man in front of him. He had been right about the handsome profile. The man was _very_ good looking. _Dressed like that…_ Mycroft found himself entranced. _He has lovely eyes…_ Mycroft forced himself to snap out of it and focus. “You’ll find a custom laptop in there, grey and silver. My ID is in the pocket on the side. I can give you my driver’s licence as proof.” _Please, please note my address…_ Mycroft mentally slapped himself as he handed his licence over. He didn’t know anything about the man… _Not true_ , his brain supplied. Despite the hair, the man wasn’t as old as he first thought. _Late forties, Inspector in the mounted division of the Met, kind eyes that were used to laughing a lot, if the crows feet at the corners were anything to go by, concerned by nature, accomplished rider, love of horses, professional, dedicated..._

“We have plenty of witnesses,” Sally said. “You didn’t pick the best spot for a grab and go, mate. More than one saw your face.” 

“Better take this one to the local station then, we can take it from here,” the policeman holding onto their thief said. “We’ll set up an ID parade, get them to formally identify him.”

Greg looked up from examining Mycroft’s driving licence and checking the bag. He offered the bag back to its owner.

“This is obviously yours, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you, officer…?”

“Greg Lestrade, Inspector.”

“Thank you for retrieving this for me. It contains some very….sensitive information.”

“You’d best check it. Our man chucked it into a bush.”

Brief alarm crossed Mycroft’s face but he nodded. “Thank you for retrieving it for me.”

“Thank Hammy… Hamish,” Greg suggested. “He’s cleverer than me, he knew which bush to look under.” Greg patted his horse's neck, and the animal nodded agreement.

Mycroft smiled and turned to the horse. “Then my thanks are due to you, my man,” he said formally. The horse snuffed, and dipped his head. Mycroft chuckled at the display, and stroked the velvet nose. 

“Next time, maybe best to carry it cross-wise across your chest,” Greg suggested. “Slung over a shoulder is what opportunist thieves are on the look-out for.”

“I’ll be sure to take your advice, Inspector. Thank you. Might I be allowed to leave now? I have a rather important meeting I am in danger of being late for.”

“Where are you headed for?” Greg asked. “I mean, you have just been mugged. You sure you’re alright?”

“Perfectly, Inspector. My club is on the other side of the park.” 

Hammy chose that moment to push at Mycroft’s shoulder with his nose. “Oi, you,” Greg said, grabbing the bridle and pulling his head gently away. “Stop that. You think perhaps we should escort Mr Holmes to his destination?” The horse snuffed again. 

“How could I refuse such a gallant offer?” Mycroft said, smiling. 

Sally didn’t miss the uptick in Lestrade’s interest either. “Just making sure you’re alright, sir,” she heard him say. Sal mounted Vivian and followed on behind, grinning. 

They walked along the edge of the Row, on the grass beneath the trees. Mycroft kept shooting sidelong glances at his escort, who had not remounted. The man was…compelling. He was definitely handsome, his expression sincere and open. He was a comforting presence, walking beside Mycroft, hand on his horse’s bridle, leading the big animal as though they walked like this every day. 

“So…” Mycroft struggled to find something to say. “Do you do this often?”

“What?” Greg was thrown by the opening salvo. 

“Escort random victims of opportunist crime?”

Greg chuckled. “Well...no, but I guess this is...a special occasion?”

“How so, Inspector? I am not exactly special…”

“No, but you are…” Greg cleared his throat. “Not wanting to patronise you, Mr Holmes…”

“Mycroft, please…”

“Mycroft,” Greg corrected, “Right now, you are...vulnerable, and you are unaccompanied, and even for the strongest person, the shock of an encounter like that could manifest at any time. I would be negligent if I didn’t make sure you were safe on your way.”

At any other time, if anybody had suggested such a thing, they would have received Mycroft Holmes’ patent glare and frosty demeanor, but he held his peace, because the man beside him actually _was_ concerned, and Mycroft was not going to pass up an opportunity like this. 

“Thank you for your care,” he said, with a gentle smile. “I shall of course take your suggestion to heart. I usually do not travel on foot, but my car was hopelessly stuck in the holiday traffic and I decided to walk. I instructed my driver to drop me off and meet me at the club. Ironically, he is probably there ahead of me.” 

Greg smiled. “Well, never mind, you’ll be there in one piece anyway. Better late than never.”

“Quite.”

They reached the park gate in silence. The two men turned toward each other. “Well,” Mycroft said, “Thank you for your aftercare, Inspector... _Greg_. I am quite alright now though, and I must go…”

“Of course. Well,” Greg grinned again, “hope your laptop is okay.”

“Heavens, yes. I will check it in all haste when I get to my destination.”

“Well...good luck…”

The two men shook hands. Then the moment was gone. Mycroft stepped away, through the gate, across the side road, and disappeared into the portico of a large imposing Victorian building.

“Now that,” Sally said, as Greg returned to where she and Vivian were waiting, “is a match made in Heaven, if ever I saw one.”

“Shut up, Sal. It was professional interest, nothing more.”

“Bollocks,” Sally said, inelegantly. “He’s interested, or I’ll eat my helmet.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Greg said with a sigh. “I didn’t get his phone number.”

“No,” Sally said with a smile, “but I did.”


	2. Never Look A Gift Horse in the Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation from Mycroft sparks something, but Greg isn't sure what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also back on track with this one. Anyone who has been waiting, thanks for your patience there.

“You know I can’t use my professional privilege,” Greg complained, once they were back at base. “I’ve no good reason to be contacting him. It would look like stalking.” 

Sally poured them both coffee and sat down at the table. “It’s not stalking if you were both interested, and he _was_ interested. Besides, you could just say it was a follow up to make sure he didn’t need a referral to victim support or anything, and give him your number. Completely legit. Seriously, Greg. He couldn’t stop checking you out.”

“I know _nothing_ about him. He might be a criminal mastermind. Worse, he might just be a colossal prick...”

“Being a prick is worse than being a criminal?” Sally said, grin widening. “If you’re that bothered, then why don’t you just Google him.”

“What?” 

“With a name like that, google him. How many Mycroft Holmes’s do you know? If he doesn’t show up at least on LinkedIn, it’s probably because he works for the Government. If he really is a criminal, even they have social media accounts.”

Greg rolled his eyes at his Sergeant, but he took his phone and googled. “Oh. Wow. He’s…” Greg’s expression was priceless. He gave a long low whistle. 

“What, Greg? What is he? Oh, my God. He’s a Criminal Mastermind, isn’t he? Or maybe he’s 007. Oo, could be a high powered lawyer, or a car salesman? What?” 

Greg sputtered his coffee. “Car salesman? Dressed like that?”

“What, he might sell Bentleys,” she complained. “There are more than a few high end car dealerships around. So go on then, who is he?”

Greg turned his phone for her to see. There was Mycroft Holmes’ profile, complete with a photo. She let out a similar awed whistle. “Will you look at that. CEO of Homes Baskerville Baker, hm? So, he’s one of the pharma fatcats...”

“What was that about HBB?” They both looked up to see Dave Hawkins hovering by the door. 

“We just met their Chief Exec,” Sally explained. “He got mugged in the park.”

“Bloody Hell,” Dave exclaimed. “Is he okay?”

“Seemed to be. Quite calm, all things considered. We escorted him to his club on the other side of the park,” Greg admitted, “just to make sure.”

“ _You_ escorted him,” Sally insisted. “I just played third wheel. Honestly, Dave, if you could have seen the two of them, eyeing each other up…”

“Shut it, Sal,” Greg complained.

“Well, that’s a man who has some clout,” Dave said. “The company belongs to him, you know. There are no partners, no Baskerville or Baker.”

“So why’s it called that?”

“Baskerville is the name of the place where the brothers grew up and Baker is their mother’s maiden name. That firm makes all sorts, everything from kitchen scales to hi-tech measuring instruments for the space station.”

“Seriously?” Sally said. 

“Seriously. Holmes senior is a government advisor.”

“How on earth do you know about it, Dave?” Greg asked, curious to find out how his constable was so clued up.

“Daughter’s at UCL, doing biomedical engineering. Janine did work placement there a year ago, and her mum and me, we’ve never heard the end of how wonderful it all was. Between you and me I think she had a crush on the guy she was working with.” He grinned, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “You know how youngsters are. She couldn’t stop gushing about how welcome they made her feel. The last place she was at treated the students like dogsbodies. According to Jan, HBB are completely different. They’re working on some cutting edge stuff, and their R and D department is where she’d like to be. She’s even got a provisional job offer, pending her final results. She brought the brochures back with her to show us.” Dave chuckled. “More than half if it is over my head but they do look after their staff. Company benefits are amazing, and according to my lass, it’s the CEO who put those benefits in place. I really hope she gets her grades and gets the job. The entry level pay would make your eyes water.” 

“Wish her luck with it then,” Greg said, as Dave wandered off to the staffroom. 

“Jesus, Greg, he must be loaded,” Sally murmured when Dave was out of earshot. “The guy belongs to a gentlemen's club, for goodness sake. You _really_ need to call him.”

“For God’s sake, I am not a golddigger, Sally. He’s out of my league.”

“Nonsense, Greg. He was _interested_ in you. I couldn’t help but see how he was looking at you the whole way to the other side of the park…”

“Yeah, well, this is a whole different ball game. He’s powerful, moneyed, and we all know those types. He’s most probably after no more than a hook-up with a bit of rough…”

“Who cares if it gets you laid?” 

_“Sally!_ ”

Afternoon patrol was much like the morning, although hotter. Greg sweated under his body armour, and they stood the horses under a tree for some shade. Nothing of note happened; tourists photographed them, a few asked directions, they had one lost child and one lost dog who bonded while their respective minders were located. Once the child and the dog were returned to their families, Greg and Sally returned from afternoon patrol hot and thirsty. After turning the horses into their boxes, they left them in Sam’s capable hands. Sam would make sure they had enough water and a light feed, while Greg and Sally both had paperwork to catch up on.

The moment Greg walked into his office, things got a bit weird. 

“Sally…?” 

The tone of Greg’s voice had his sergeant hurrying to find out what was up. “Yeah, Boss, what’s u...Oh.” Sally couldn’t miss the reason for her boss’ slightly flummoxed voice. “Wow…” She said, hardly able to see him for the enormous arrangement of flowers on his desk. Sally grinned at her boss’ consternation.

"Looks like someone robbed a florist,” she said. 

“There’s a delivery on your desk, Greg,” Percy, their admin, said helpfully, leaning on the office door.

“I think I can see that, Perce,” Greg said, dryly. 

"Admin are on the ball as usual," Sal added, patting Percy on the shoulder.

"Hah, bleedin' hah," Percy replied. "Some of us have a proper job…" 

"So...when were they delivered?" Greg asked. 

“Half hour since, delivered by a posh courier,” Percy replied. “Don’t get above yourself, they’re not for you, they’re for Hamish. He’s got more fans than you have.” Sally snorted and Greg glared in mock outrage, despite knowing full well that his horse received lots of fan mail. Constable Hamish had regular redirected letters from Scotland Yard from as far afield as Seattle and Sydney. He also had over five thousand followers on social media.

“Is there a note?” Sally asked. "Come on, Greg, who are they from?"

“Hang on…” He reached in and retrieved the envelope clipped to a stick which was hiding behind a large sunflower. “Here it is...”

“Well, what’s it say?”

“It does seem to be addressed to my horse.” He brandished the envelope which had _Hamish_ on it in large letters. Inside was a card with a black horse on the front. 

“Greg, I am dying of anticipation here…”

“Then I’ll come to your funeral, because I am not reading this out loud…”

“Aw, come on…”

“No…”

“Oh, give it here.” The card was snatched out of his hand. “ _Dear Hamish_ ,” she read, “ _I must thank you for your diligence in apprehending the felon_... _Felon?_ Who uses that word any more? _In apprehending the felon who ambushed my rider and stole his laptop this morning_ …” Sally looked up and grinned. “This is too precious for words!” she said. “ _The bouquet is completely edible, I hope you enjoy it. I would like to take this opportunity to invite you both to ride out with us one evening. RSVP Merlin Holmes..._ ” Sally turned the card back to Greg. “You reckon that’s his horse’s name?”

“I should bloody hope so,” Greg said, incredulous. “Besides, it says ‘ _my rider’_ so it must be.”

“That’s so adorable,” she said, leaning in to sniff the flowers. “This guy has a sense of humour. You absolutely _have_ to call him now,” she insisted. “He’s given you his phone number. Call him, Greg. You’ve got to thank him for the flowers anyway.” 

Greg tried to frown, and couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Later, Sergeant,” he said, removing the arrangement to a safer place behind his desk. 

**GLestrade 16:02 Thank you for the delivery. Thoughtful of you. Hamish appreciated it. At least, he decided not to share any of it with me.**

**_MHolmes 16:07 A pleasure, Inspector. I greatly appreciate the care you showed. I managed to get to my meeting in time this morning, thanks to you. A very successful conclusion._ **

**GLestrade 16:14 Good news, Mr Holmes. Just doing our job. Glad to know things went ok. Stay safe. Thanks again for the flowers, it was thoughtful of you. Nice when we get positive press for once.**

**_MHolmes 16:21 I wonder, perhaps you would oblige Merlin by accepting his invitation. He really would like to meet my equine saviour, and his rider, of course. I can offer you something more appealing to your pallet than flowers._ **

**GLestrade 16:26 It’s not necessary, Mr Holmes. Nice of you to offer, but not necessary.**

**_MHolmes 16:30 I beg to differ. Besides, I enjoy riding out, and Merlin needs the exercise. However, if it makes you uncomfortable, I will not risk your ire by pursuing the matter. I hope I can at least count you as a friend._ **

**GLestrade 16:35 I’m serious about not needing recompense, Mr Holmes. This is my job, and we can’t accept gifts. We’re not allowed to.**

**_MHolmes 16.38 Thus, the flowers were for Hamish, not his rider._ **

Greg smiled at the response, shaking his head slightly in exasperation. There was a pause in the texting, during which Greg stared at his phone, wondering. _Let’s be honest,_ he thought, _that man is gorgeous and he ticks all your boxes_ … _Maybe he just wants to be friends? No reason to lose your head, Greg, m’lad. He was being nice._ He stared at the phone. _Oh...Fuck it. What do I do?_ Just as he was beginning to think he had made a mess of things, his phone buzzed with a new text.

_**MHolmes 16.48 I wonder, would you be amenable to visiting me at my club after work tomorrow, a little refreshment after your workday? I have something I wish to discuss with you.** _

Greg stared at his phone. Then he sighed, and replied with an affirmative before he could change his mind. 

**0000000**

Greg wondered what he was doing, showing up at a swanky club after work the following day, not knowing what to expect. He arrived to find a doorman dressed in an immaculate livery complete with top hat standing on the steps, which left him feeling distinctly underdressed in his civvies; faded black cargo pants, a dark red polo shirt and his scruffy tan leather jacket. The man held the door for him without comment and he walked into all-encompassing silence. Even the city noises were muffled. One or two sets of eyes travelled over him as he stood there. Mycroft had texted him not to speak but to just show his ID, which he did, to the silent concierge who greeted him on entering. On seeing his warrant card, the man smiled and beckoned him into a room off the main thoroughfare. He was told, in a murmur, to please wait there. The man withdrew and left him to it. 

Presently the door opened and Mycroft appeared, beckoned with one elegant finger, and led him up a huge staircase, carpeted with a thick dark-blue Persian-style stair runner, held down by brass rods. They padded along an equally thickly-carpeted corridor to a heavy wooden door, beyond which lay a rather cosy wood-paneled room. There was a table set for two, the tall floor-to-ceiling windows open wide onto a balcony overlooking a private courtyard garden behind the building. Holmes turned toward him the moment the door was closed. 

“Welcome, Inspector,” he said warmly. “Apologies for the cloak-and-dagger silence, but it is a club rule. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“It’s Greg. I think we might be past formality, don’t you, Mr Holmes?”

The man nodded, smiling. “Mycroft, then, if you please, Gregory.” Greg snorted, which elicited a frown.

“Sorry, Mycroft, but nobody calls me Gregory, except my Grandma when I was naughty.”

Mycroft smiled. “I always feel that one should make the effort to utter the whole name one has been gifted with,” he explained. “My mother rarely if ever manages it where I am concerned.”

“Greg is fine for me. Otherwise I feel like I’m in the Headmaster’s office. Not even our Chief Super calls me Gregory.”

“Greg,” Mycroft said, as if trying it for size. “So, may I offer you that promised refreshment? I'm assuming you’ve time?”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, it’s fine. After all, I’m not on actual duty tomorrow. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on. My Sergeant will be organising and briefing the patrols.” 

“Inspector… Greg… If I _am_ making you feel uncomfortable, then by all means, you are free to leave. I bear no wish to alienate you,” Mycroft insisted. “That is furthest from my mind, believe me. I would appreciate the company this evening though, even if this goes no further.”

“How much further are you interested in?” Greg asked a bit bluntly. He was flattered at the attention but a little wary of Mycroft’s ease with the situation. The man was clearly used to getting his own way. 

“I…” Mycroft paused, met Greg’s gaze with his own. He took a deep breath. “As far as you wish,” he said, and his voice husked with emotion. “Gregory, let me be completely honest. You are frankly the most interesting and attractive man I have met in years. Your care of me yesterday was welcome and appreciated, despite it obviously being the way you act with most people you come into contact with in the context of your job, but...I saw a spark of _something_ in your eyes, not to mention your body language. Was I Imagining that?”

Greg cleared his throat. “Not all all, Mycroft. Yes, I would have treated anyone in your position the same way. A victim of crime needs support and care, no matter how they react, but you...you are a _very_ attractive man, in my eyes. While we’re being honest, I have to admit you tick all my boxes. However, I have to be _very_ careful. Liaisons with a victim of crime, particularly one that I’ve been dealing with directly, are kind of off limits. We can get into all kinds of trouble with that.”

“You are clearly a man of integrity and honour.”

“I try to be. Again, part of the job, or it should be.”

“A job in which you have progressed admirably.” 

“Thank you.”

“Drink?”

“What I could do with right now is a very cold beer.” He watched Mycroft smile, and nod. 

“I anticipated correctly, although I do not know your brand preferences.” He reached into an ice bucket and pulled out a blonde ale. “There, at least it is cold.”

Mycroft watched Greg fish out his keys and use the bottle opener to lever the cap off. Without asking for a glass, he took a deep pull from the bottle and sighed in pleasure. “That was worth coming for,” he said, appreciatively. “Thank you. You...said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Ah yes, I did. I do hope you have time to join me for dinner.”

“Well, I’m in no hurry, but as I said, got to be careful. I have no wish for anyone to haul me up on a disciplinary issue.”

“Heaven forfend,” Mycroft agreed. “However, there is no rule to say we cannot remain friends, is there?”

“Well, as I said, I have to remain professional.” He took another pull from the bottle, knowing full well Holmes was watching him drink. “However, as long as there are no complaints…”

“Inspector...Greg… I have no vested interest in complaining to anyone about your conduct. Thus far it has been exemplary. So...please sit down and enjoy a meal with me, in private, with no on-lookers. Your secret is safe with me.” 

When they were ready to eat, a quick text from Mycroft summoned a discreet waiter with a serving trolley. The man served them efficiently, then broke open a bottle of crisp white wine. He filled their glasses, then with a quiet “Bon appetit, Gentlemen,” he withdrew, leaving them alone. The first course was a salmon mousse accompanied by a pear, apple and fennel salad, delicate crisp breads stacked on the plate beside it. The food was colourfully served with tiny edible flowers in the salad. 

“I hope I chose wisely,” Mycroft said, watching Greg study the plate. “You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“Nope, none whatever.” Greg smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. 

“Well, with this heat, I assumed you wouldn’t want anything too heavy. There is a vegetarian option if you prefer.”

“I’m good.” 

Mycroft smiled. “I ordered rack of lamb with summer vegetables for the main course, and a veritable treat for dessert. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Looking at this, I very much doubt that disappointment will be a thing. So tell me, Mycroft, what does the CEO of HBB really want with me, hm?” He scooped up some mousse on a cracker and slipped it into his mouth, whereupon it melted on his tongue. “Oh, my God, that _is_ good.” 

“What does this CEO want with you? Simply whatever you are comfortable with, in the long run,” Mycroft replied. “As I said, you are frankly the most attractive man I have had occasion to meet in far too long. Not only are you attractive, but you are a policeman, trustworthy, protective, a caregiver. I simply had to determine if there was a chance to experience something more long term with you, that is all. I have no ulterior motive, other than companionship…unless you wish something more...well...intimate.”

“I think that is something we _should_ explore, by all means. I mean...what you’re offering is not some short term fling, is it, Mycroft?”

“No. In all honesty, I do not want that.” Mycroft sighed, and stared out the window. “Honestly, I am lonely, Greg. I run...well, do you know what my company does?”

“Scientific instrumentation, apparently. One of my colleagues has a daughter who did work experience with HBB last year, she’s a graduate chemist.”

“What was her name?”

“Jan— _Janine_ Bradstreet. She’s the daughter of one of my constables.”

“Ah, yes, Janine. A very accomplished young woman. I believe we offered her a job, pending grades, but I very much doubt she will have a problem with those. She has an analytical mind and a quick wit. I think she’ll fit in perfectly. My brother took to her, and he doesn’t do that easily where colleagues are concerned. He is a bit of a loner, but I think he recognised a similar mind.” 

“Sounds good. Your brother finds it hard to connect then?”

Mycroft sighed. “As do I.”

“You do?”

“I am afraid so. I hope you won’t be put off, Greg. I can be rather morose sometimes, and I play cello at odd hours. Sometimes I don’t want to talk for days…It makes board meetings rather tedious.”

Greg smiled. “Sounds rather restful.”

“Pardon?”

“Playing cello and not talking? Sounds rather...meditative, somehow. I like nothing better than to read a good book, stick the radio on to something classical and kick back for a couple hours. Peace and quiet in a hectic world, not to be sneezed at.”

“Good Lord,” Mycroft murmured, staring at him strangely.

“What?” 

“I...I have n.n.never…” Mycroft stuttered to a halt. “Honestly, Gregory, I have never had anybody look at it that way before, never mind express a similar outlook to mine.”

“Well, I’m not just _anybody,_ as you may have noticed,” Greg said. “Look, Mycroft, I’m more than happy to see where this goes. I know one thing…” He paused for effect.

“And what might that be?”

“Life with you won’t be boring.”

“I actually did want to talk to you about a donation,” Mycroft said over their main course. The lamb was melting in Greg’s mouth, and he was relaxing more as the evening wore on. 

“A donation?”

“Yes. After your courageous rescue,” Mycroft said with a smile. “I wanted to pay something back, and a donation seemed a good idea. You cannot accept anything personally, so…”

“Who were you thinking of donating to?”

“I have no idea. That was why I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Well, you could donate to the Horse Trust. They give our retired horses a home when they leave the service. They’re always needing support. We usually raise money for them at our Christmas reunion dinner.”

“A capital idea, Gregory. I shall speak to my financial advisor on Monday.” 

“Thank you, Mycroft. I’m sure it will be gratefully received.”

“So, I hope you won’t be put off by me, Mycroft,” Greg said as they were awaiting coffee. “I get a bit enthusiastic when I have a captive audience. I can bore people’s pants off about horses” Greg was replete after their dinner. Dessert had been spherified mango and passion fruit, bubbles of flavour that burst on his tongue, served with his favourite pistachio ice cream, and decorated with tiny sugared rose petals. It both looked and tasted amazing. He was chatty and relaxed, Mycroft noted, and he smiled fondly. The man had a way of making him feel as though they’d known each other for ages. 

“I shall similarly bore the pants off you by chatting at length about polo ponies. My mother breeds them. It is her hobby.”

“You play polo?”

“Unfortunately no more,” Mycroft said, a little sadly. “I am too long in the tooth for that now. It is a younger man’s sport. A younger man than I, at any rate. I still ride though, but not as often as I would wish.”

“You own a horse though. What was his name, Merlin?”

“I own more than one, they’re stabled at my home in Richmond. Merlin I keep stabled near Rotten Row, so I can get out on him a couple of times a week. Arthur and Lancelot I have at home.”

“I love your choice of names.”

“A childhood love of Arthurian legend I’m afraid,” Mycroft admitted. 

“Nothing wrong with a good Arthurian tale,” Greg said with a smile. “You know, if you’d like to ride out one evening…? Can’t disappoint your Merlin, can we?”

“Not at all. He can be difficult if he doesn’t get his own way.”

“Like his rider?”

“I am not so possessive, Gregory, you do not need to worry.” 

“I’m not. You don’t worry me, Mycroft.” 

“Good. I have no wish to, believe me.” 

“So, I happen to be on an early finish the day after tomorrow. When do you take him out?”

“I aim for Tuesdays and Fridays as a rule but I am going home for the weekend, so I may try for Thursday evening. Were you planning on joining us?”

“If you would like us to, I dare say we could meet you on the Row?” 

“Capital idea. However, I also wondered...if you would care to...well, to meet the others? Visit my home and ride out with us, perhaps one weekend? You could borrow Lancelot, he would be a similar mount to Hamish.” Greg stared at the man, unsure what to say. “Of course, if you are busy, I will understand perfectly. One such as yourself must have a rather packed schedule. If you find you have no spare time, then...I quite understand.” Greg realised Mycroft was giving him an out, if he so desired. Somehow though, Greg found that there was nothing he wanted less right at that moment. 

“No, no, I...I’m not _that_ busy. When did you have in mind?” 

“Whenever you have a weekend free. I wondered if you would care to stay overnight? It would save you travelling…”

“So...Mycroft,” Greg said, “just to be clear, are you suggesting I stay for breakfast?”

“If you stay overnight, of course I am offering breakfast,” Mycroft met his gaze, deliberately avoiding the double entendre. Greg gave him a blinding grin. 

“Then I guess,” he said happily, “I accept your kind invitation. Did you say you were going home this weekend? I mean...I don’t want to invite myself too early, it is a bit short notice...”

“On the contrary, this coming weekend would actually work perfectly,” Mycroft answered quickly. “I am afraid I have to fly out to Paris the weekend after…”

“Paris? Wow. Weekend away?”

“Nothing so enticing, I’m afraid. A rather tedious business conference, so I most likely won’t have time to enjoy much of my surroundings. So this weekend would be perfect, Gregory. Please, don’t worry about the short notice. In fact, would you care to let me drive you there? I could pick you up from your home on Friday evening? However, I do understand if you would rather get there under your own auspices.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“You wouldn’t be imposing. I look forward to it, _”_ Mycroft said, sipping his after dinner coffee thoughtfully. 

The rest of their evening passed quickly. Greg checked his watch and realised it was nearly ten. “Bugger, I’d better be heading off.” 

“I’m sorry, I have rather monopolised your time.”

Greg smiled. “I’ve enjoyed it.” He stood, retrieving his jacket from the chair back and stared out of the open window, over the balcony to the illuminated garden below. The sun was only just setting, the sky a dark clear cobalt, the first few stars winking above them. Mycroft stepped close, and Greg turned toward him. “Lovely night,” he said. 

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed, his eyes on Greg’s mouth.

“Romantic…”

“Eminently.” They turned toward each other. Greg leaned in, and so did Mycroft. They bumped noses awkwardly, which thoroughly destroyed the moment, and set Greg laughing. Mycroft rolled his eyes, then joined in the mirth, shaking his head in gentle exasperation. 

“Shall we try that again?” Greg asked. “Then I really have to go.” 

This time, they leaned in and tilted heads more efficiently. Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft’s in a chaste kiss, his nose registering the subtle cologne the man used and the enticing musk underlying it. He pulled Mycroft closer and felt the man’s arms tighten around him. All his senses felt alive with it; the feel of the cool linen of Mycroft’s suit under his fingers, the touch of their lips, the taste of his mouth, his scent, the rush of blood in his ears… He pulled away reluctantly, eyes never leaving those of the man in his arms. “I’m...sorry...I really have to go…”

“No, no, it’s not a problem...Go. And thank you, Greg.”

Greg smiled fondly. “Thank you, Mycroft. See you Thursday?” 

“Wild horses wouldn’t stop me,” Mycroft said. “Come on, I’ll escort you to your car.” 

“Chivalrous of you,” Greg said, amused. “I guess there’s always the chance I might get the urge to speak. Might be in danger from the other club members.”

“Nonsense, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, leading him out of the room. “I have no doubts that you can hold your own against any of them. There isn’t one of them under 70, and most have led a thoroughly sedentary lifestyle. I doubt any one of them would stir themselves from their seats, never mind bother to attack you for speaking. You may well get death stares of disapproval, but that is all.” 

Greg chuckled. “So why are you seeing me out?”

“Because it is the perfect excuse to have more time with you.” 

Greg had no answer for that.

He drove away reluctantly, realising he was more invested in this man than he had any right to be. He barely knew him, and he was going to be spending the weekend with him? Then he remembered. “Oh, damn it all!” he burst out. It was the Arsenal match weekend. “How the Hell could I have forgotten that?” He would have to text... _no, call,_ when he got back. He sighed. At least he would have their Thursday ride. 


	3. Don't Put the Cart Before the Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft ride out together.

“Greg…”

The morning dawned bright and slightly cooler, which was welcome, but Greg was in a grumpy mood. He had tried to call, but Mycroft’s phone went to voicemail and Greg wanted to admit his mistake personally. He looked up, seeing Barry Gregson in the doorway.

“What can I do for you, Barry?” The Inspector that Greg shared his division with grinned and swung into the office, taking the seat opposite. 

“Are you alright?”

“Just kicking myself, that’s all. I double-booked myself, this weekend. I have the Arsenal match on Saturday, and I’ve just been invited away for the weekend.” Greg scratched his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, changing the move to massage the tight muscles across his shoulders. He sighed. “The...person who invited me...he’s…” Greg paused, wondering how to describe Mycroft.

“Important?” Barry suggested. He smiled. “You haven’t had anyone important in your life for a long time.”

“Too bloody long. Christ, I’ve only just met him…”

“Hits you like that sometimes. Out of the blue.” 

“Anyway, enough about me. What did you call in for?”

“Briefing about this weekend, coincidentally. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh, shit, of course, it’s this afternoon, isn’t it? 1:30 wasn’t it?”

“Yup. You know what? Couldn’t you beg off after the match? Once the horses are loaded up, you don’t need to accompany them back to the stables. Sam’ll do that. You could leave right after the match…”

Greg shrugged. “Not a lot of point. I’m in work early Monday. Kinda makes it a short weekend. It’ll cut considerably into the weekend if I’m not there Friday night.” 

“Come on Greg, where is he? Spain? Surely you can drive back in on Monday morning instead of Sunday night, or maybe...”

“Maybe what?”

“I could be persuaded to cover Monday for you.” Barry grinned. “A good bottle of single malt never goes amiss.”

“But it’s my shift’s turn to support Trooping the Colour on Monday. You’d be up for that?”

“Look, Greg, you _never_ take time off. God knows how much Lieu time you’ve accrued. I don’t mind, seriously.”

0000000

“Mycroft?”

“Gregory. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just an apology. I double-booked myself on Saturday. We’re already scheduled to support the Arsenal match at Highbury. I won’t get away until the evening.”

“Ah. A pity.”

“I was hoping I could drive over after the match on Saturday though. I know it shortens the weekend a bit but...well, thing is, a colleague has offered to cover my Monday shift. Depends on whether you’d be free Monday, of course, but the offer’s there...Just sorry I forgot my shift patterns.” 

“Hardly a problem, Greg. Thank you for getting in touch. As it happens…” Mycroft glanced across at Anthea, sitting with her laptop on her knees. She nodded, subtly. “I am free Monday too. I will perhaps have to pack for my weekend trip, but beyond that…” Anthea was already tap-tapping away on her keyboard. She glanced up and smiled, one eyebrow arched and a smirk lifting her lips. She nodded, once. “I have no other calls on my time, until…”

“Tuesday,” she whispered. 

“Tuesday,” Mycroft said firmly. 

“Really? Okay then...I promise I won’t overstay my welcome.”

“You would be most welcome to stay as long as you wish, but I understand your commitment to your profession. Stay safe, Gregory. All is not lost. I shall see you Thursday evening after work regardless. What time were you thinking we should meet?”

“I get away at four-ish, but Hammy and I can be there by four thirty. Unless that’s too early.”

“I shall manage to be there for five, if that will suffice?”

“Five it is. That’s great. Sorry again about Saturday.”

“Not a problem, I assure you. It won’t significantly impact upon our time together. I shall see you Thursday.”

“Okay, and thanks, Mycroft.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Mycroft said to Anthea as he put the phone down.

“Not a problem, sir. I cleared your schedule for Monday. The flight to Paris is at 1.30pm friday afternoon of next week, and there will be a car to take you all to the Hotel Le Grand. I’ve scheduled Ian, Rachel and Hugo to accompany you, and between you, you are booked into three seminars each, two on Saturday and one on Sunday, so the four of you should be able to cover everything that is going on.”

“Thank you…”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Enjoy your weekend.”

**0000000**

Thursday afternoon couldn’t come soon enough for Greg and Hammy picked up on his excitement. “Come on, Lad, we have a date,” he murmured, saddling the horse up once his shift had ended. 

“You taking him out for his evening constitutional then, Greg?”

“Yeah, Sam. I’m meeting a friend.”

“Okay for some. I’m stuck here until six thirty.” 

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back before then.”

Greg rode out of the gate and took Hammy down the road to the park, edging onto the Row and riding down toward the gate he knew the local stables always used. Hammy trotted happily along, eager to be out. Greg wasn’t on duty so he wasn’t technically in uniform, but he had retained his jodhpurs and boots, throwing a black t-shirt on in place of his shirt. He wore his own helmet, and his own non-uniform body protector, with its personal airbag, just in case. He always took riding seriously, even when off duty, and was too safety conscious not to be prepared. He enjoyed riding out when he wasn’t on duty. He could relax and take his time, enjoying the summer evening. He stopped off at the ice cream van by the gate and bought a cone for himself, feeding Hammy a few polo mints. Hammy crunched contentedly as Greg ate his ice cream and waited for the man to show. 

He almost didn’t recognise Mycroft when he finally came into view. A group of riders from the local stables arrived, one or two casting admiring looks toward them, and Greg glanced over them, dismissing the first group—some teens and an older ‘minder’ from the stables—prefering to take in the rest who arrived in small groups. Some stuck together companionably, others preferred riding alone. A tall man riding almost at the back on a rather handsome black horse hove into view. He was clad in a dark green polo shirt, leather riding gloves, a traditional black velvet hat on his head, pale jodhpurs showing off his thighs, tall boots shaping to his calves. Mycroft looked amazing, almost regal. 

"Mycroft," Greg called, urging Hammy over to join them. Mycroft reined in with a smile. 

"Gregory, nice to see you. How are you?"

"Not bad. Yourself?"

"Tolerably well, all the better for seeing you." 

The horses sniffed at each other, greeting and exploring. "Merlin is beautiful," Greg complimented. 

"I'm sure he is very appreciative of your admiration." They fell into step, riding close. "So how was your day?”

“Paperwork again. Hammy’s been in most of today, so a ride out this evening is perfect for him. He’s a bit eager to be out as a result. Sorry about this weekend, by the way.”

“Not a problem, honestly. We can ride out on sunday, enjoy the countryside. I wondered if you would care for a pub lunch too? Our local pub is around three miles away but quite amenable to riders. Besides, I know the owners.”

“Sounds great. Can you be drunk in charge of a horse?”

“I am shocked that you do not know,” Mycroft smiled.

Greg grinned at him. “Actually, I do know, and yes it is. You cannot be drunk in charge of either a horse or a cow on the highway, or any other public place. Comes under the Licensing Act 1872.”

“I shall endeavour not to drink and ride then.” 

“Good idea. You know...something I _don’t_ know, why this is called Rotten Row.”

“I believe I can throw light on that. It was originally named ‘Route de Roi’,” Mycroft explained.

“The King’s route?”

“You speak French.”

“With my surname? Of course I speak French. My Grandad flew Spitfires in the RAF during the war, part of the Free French who escaped to England. Met an English girl, a WAAF, and they got married after the war and settled here. I have lots of French cousins. Grandad had about four brothers, all Lestrades, although only two of them survived the war. There are lots of Lestrades and Lestrade relatives in Lombardy and a few in Provence.”

“Indeed. We too have French connections, my brother and I. Our five times Great grandfather was a painter, Claude Vernet.”

“Wow, a painter? Really?”

“I am in awe of your Free French fighter pilot grandfather, Gregory. I rather think a painter cannot compare with that.” 

“So...Rotten Row, you were telling me where the name came from.”

“This route started out in the 17th Century as a means by which King William III could gallop between his Kensington and St. James’s Park residences in the relative safety offered by the park. Rotten Row is therefore merely a corruption of Route-de-roi, or Root-de-row.”

Greg grinned, pleased. “I’ve learned something,” he declared. “Love it when I learn new stuff.” 

“So, this weekend…” Mycroft began.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still happy to drive up after the match on Saturday? I shall of course text you the postcode, if you have a sat nav?”

“Yeah, sure. Should be setting off around six thirty pm. 3pm kickoff, and unless it goes into extra time, five o’clock finish, and then I have to help get the horses back into the transport and back to the stables so I can pick my car up. I can leave their care to our stablehand but I’ll still have to navigate London traffic. How far out are you?”

“Not too far. I live near Richmond Park.” 

“Okay. No idea what time I’ll get to you then, shouldn’t take me longer than an hour, depends on traffic of course.”

“I shall make sure dinner is ready for you. We can ride out in the Park on Sunday.”

“That sounds great, actually.”

“Good.” Mycroft checked his watch. “Regretfully, it is nearly six. I think it is time we turned for home.”

“Jesus, yes, I said I’d be back before 6.30.” They turned the horses and cantered a ways, letting them stretch their legs a little. Greg admired the way Mycroft handled Merlin, obviously an experienced rider to go by his posture. The horse himself was beautiful. “Does he have Friesian blood in him?” Greg asked as they arrived back at the gate. 

“A little. His Granddam was a Friesian, but I like to think there is a little Andalusian in him too. He moves with such grace.”

“That he does. Well, Mycroft, it’s been a real pleasure. I look forward to the weekend.”

“As do I. Rest well, Gregory, and you too, Hamish.” Mycroft turned Merlin to the gate and headed out, with a casual wave of his gloved hand. Greg watched him go, admiring the poise and elegance. _God,_ Greg thought, _I’ve got it bad..._


	4. Weekend Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the match, Greg drives over to Mycroft's house for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short one to prove I haven't forgotten them all.

Saturday morning arrived bright and warm again, and Greg got to the stables early to help load the horses into the lorries that would take his team to the Emirates Stadium for the friendly game with Tottenham. His overnight bag was in his car boot, his personal riding gear along with it, and he was having trouble dragging his attention to the tasks in hand. He was looking forward to seeing Mycroft again, and particularly looking forward to seeing his place, not to mention a ride out on Sunday with the man. He wondered as he groomed Hammy that morning, sweeping the brush across the broad chestnut rump, letting his mind wander to another perfectly formed rump… He shook himself. He really needed to focus. 

They loaded the horses into the horseboxes that would take them all there, then jumped in himself, next to Craig, the driver. Navigating the busy Saturday morning London streets to the Emirates ground on the edge of the Highbury area, only a few streets away from the former stadium, was nevertheless not for the faint hearted, although Craig did it with his usual steadiness. The big wagon was white with the usual yellow and blue chequered stripe down each side, unmistakable as a Police vehicle, but not a common sight on the streets. They parked behind the stadium in a quieter corner and offloaded the animals onto the concrete. The constables buzzed around with their usual jobs of watering the horses and making sure they were comfortable. Craig had parked side-on to the angle of the sun, so one side of the wagon would always be in shade, something they were all in need of on what was promising to be a scorcher. Nobody shunned their full gear though, and Greg found himself reminding people to drink enough fluids and to make sure the horses did as well. 

People began to arrive, shouting and singing, steaming toward the stadium with a general party atmosphere, jostling and jeering but in a reasonably good-natured way, laughing and generally having a good time. Some people wanted to admire the horses and one or two got a bit handsy, with the police officers as well as the horses. There was a lot of eye rolling from the female PCs who had seen it all before. Some people simply liked getting close to the horses, and there were plenty of photos snapped, including lots of selfies. The horses just stood there, patiently, always popular. If anybody got too close, they would nudge people away with their noses and snort with a fair approximation of impatience. 

Greg contrived to be in the ground during the match, which always pleased him, making sure Hammy got refreshment at half time, and himself included. Greg swilled what seemed like gallons of water and juice, slathered any exposed bit of himself in factor 50 suncream, and was actually glad of his helmet, despite it making things a bit hot and sticky. 

Arsenal won 2:1 and they watched the ground empty rather quickly, listening to radio reports from control concerning which underground stations were getting packed up. The horses headed off the crowds until things cleared a bit. Greg always marvelled at how six horses could hold off a crowd of upwards of 30 thousand souls with surprising ease. 

It took them until six to sort the mass exodus, get the horses back to the lorries, and load them back on board. It was nearing seven when they arrived back at base, and Greg glanced at one of the stable hands. “Luke?”

“Aye, sir?” The young Scotsman replied quickly.

“Could you look after Hammy for me tonight? I’ve got somewhere to be and I’m running late. Do you mind?”

“Nay, sir, that’s fine. Gi’ him here.” Luke took the reins and led the unprotesting horse inside. Greg dashed into the building, left his own uniform kit in his locker, retrieved his car keys, and dashed back out again. He was away from work and heading North toward Hampstead as fast as evening traffic would allow.

Greg’s sat nav took him into a rather posh neighbourhood with rather large detached properties in a rather leafy tree-lined street. The evening was cooling down somewhat, but the sun was still warm and Greg drove with his aircon on full blast, revelling in the cold breeze, enjoying the feeling of being free of work for a while. He loved his job, and he loved his horse, but this was different. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually visited someone for no other good reason than being a friend. _How sad is my life_ , he thought as he followed sat nav instructions and turned onto the quiet side street. Pulling the car onto a driveway of a smart-looking 1920s detached property, parking behind a rather sleek-looking dark blue Jaguar XF, he let the engine die, and got out, met with a wall of heat after the frigid cold of his own car’s aircon. He retrieved his bag from the boot and turned in time to see Mycroft appear at the doorway. 

“Good evening, Gregory. So glad you could make it. Your journey wasn’t too arduous, I hope?”

“Nah, not bad,” Greg said with a smile, locking his car and making his way along the path. “You?”

“I am lucky to enjoy the privilege of weekends off, unless we are hosting a special event, like a backers' dinner. However, I’m all yours for the rest of the weekend. Come inside, make yourself at home. I hope you don’t mind, I called out for food. Chinese, is that alright?”

“Alright? Bloody fantastic, I say. Thanks for this, Mycroft. I am starving.” 

“Come through to the kitchen then, we can eat first. I’ll see you settled into your room afterwards.”

“You sure? I’m certain I smell of horse…”

“Not a problem, I can assure you. You can shower and change later. Drink?”

Mycroft continued to play the genial host while they ate. They discussed their respective days, Mycroft asked how the match had gone, and if Hammy was alright.

“I think they’d all rather be under a tree in the shade rather than patrolling in this heat,” Greg complained. 

“It is rather too warm for my comfort. I do like the evenings though. We could take a walk around the neighbourhood this evening, if you wish? I think the weather is cooling off a mite.”

“Let me shower first, but a walk after would be pleasant, yes.” 

Greg was shown to his room after dinner, which was comfortable, with its own en suite, which he made use of, shedding his clothing and stepping into a cool refreshing shower, happy to be cleaning off his workday. He always smelled vaguely of horse, even when he was changed into his street clothes. He registered Mycroft’s approving glance when he emerged later, dressed in navy chinos, a blue polo shirt and loafers. Mycroft lead the way outside, locked his door, and guided Greg down the road, past the row of similarly large 1920s detached properties all resembling the one Mycroft owned. 

“Quite the neighbourhood, hm?” Greg observed, admiring the pleasant detached houses behind their neat suburban gardens, brick gables and mullioned windows testament to their heritage.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, smiling. “It fits a certain aesthetic of mine,” he added, enigmatically. “I have a passion for the Fin de Siecle, Art Nouveau and Deco, the organic forms and clean lines...”

“You’ve kept the original features of your house; door handles and fireplaces and such.”

“You noticed.”

“Of course. My mum loved that stuff as well actually. Practically had a diet of it when I was a nipper. I learned my Clarice Cliff from my Pilkington’s Royal Lancastrian at an early age.” 

They walked down the road and turned onto another tree-lined street, the leafy overhanging branches offering shade as they walked. “It’s a truly lovely area,” Greg commented. 

“I thought so.” Silence reigned a while longer, but Greg did not feel the need to fill it with idle chit chat. This was comfortable, companionable. “I stable my horses at Stag Lodge, up near Kingston Vale. Not too far away,” Mycroft eventually offered. 

“How many horses have you got?”

“As well as Merlin, I have Arthur and Lancelot. I think you will like Lance. He’s a feisty gelding with a kind heart. Energetic but gentle. Similar to your Hamish, I think. I also thought we might visit the Dorwich Museum too, after. A little diversion, it is situated quite close to the riding stables, If you favour a spot of culture on a Sunday?”

“Sounds great,” Greg said, and knew he meant it. Any time he had with Mycroft was proving to be time he craved, and he was sincerely looking forward to riding out and enjoying the man’s company. 


End file.
